


A Magic Dwells in Each Beginning

by queenofchildren



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, F/M, Friendship, Healing, Romance, meeting in every lifetime, partly canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 13:04:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6052663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Clarke and Bellamy start and one time they start over. </p><p>A (mostly) in-canon alternate timelines AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Magic Dwells in Each Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a poem by Hermann Hesse, "Stages" (“Stufen”). It's even more beautiful in the original German: "Jedem Anfang wohnt ein Zauber inne."

**Year 2052**

He should have known it would be like this; that even with the actual end of the world upon them, people would be sorted by class, pitted against each other in this futile race to survive. He had been told there was a shelter that would survive even the impending nuclear strike, but nobody mentioned that the shelter was for rich people only.

Rich and well-connected, that is, and Bellamy and Octavia are neither. They are all alone in this world, and clearly not destined to be here much longer. The security personnel at the door are wholly unimpressed by their pleas, by Octavia’s angry tears and Bellamy’s helpless growls. Unless they’re related to any of the oh-so-important politicians in there, they can stay outside and wait out the last few hours of their lives, only to die like vermin in the streets when the bombs hit.

Desperation threatens to crest over him when a voice rings out:

“Let them in.”

Bellamy’s gaze flicks from the stoic security guard to the origin of the voice, a blonde woman a few years younger than him. Pretty in a preppy, wholesome way, she’s wearing sky-blue scrubs and expensive-looking animal-print slippers that seem at odds both with her professional attire and  the determined look on her face.

“You know the rules, Miss Griffin – only essential personnel and their families. And I don’t see anything in their papers that would identify them as your family.”

“That’s because the wedding isn’t until June.” The security guard looks as confused as Bellamy feels and the young woman steps closer with a smile on her face. “He’s my fiancé, Sergeant Miller. We…” she breaks off, her voice strained as her eyes start to glitter tearfully, “we didn’t know if he and his sister would make it here in time.”

And before anyone can say anything, she throws herself at Bellamy with such force that he staggers backwards. He barely manages to close his arms around her, but this sham of a hug feels a lot more honest on his part when the security guard says:

“I apologize, Miss Griffin, I didn’t know. Of course they can come in.”

She holds on to his hand the entire way down the corridor, which Bellamy is thankful for because he imagines he can feel the Sergeant’s suspicious gaze following them. What he is definitely not imagining is Octavia’s face-splitting grin, the flutter in his stomach, or the fact that her hand, smaller than his and rougher than he would have expected, fits into his like nothing ever has.

He clears his throat and pushes the thought aside, trying to focus on what’s actually important right now:

“Thank you. You’ve just saved our lives.”

Instead of smiling again and telling him not to worry, she frowns.

“Those regulations are stupid. If we’re going to let people burn instead of helping them, we don’t deserve to survive in the first place.”

And that is her final word on the issue. (But not, thankfully, her final word to him. Or the last time she holds his hand.)

 

**Year 2139**

Clarke has once again strayed too far from the village, too close to Trigedakru territory. Ever since she’s been allowed to go exploring on her own, she keeps getting sidetracked – by a beautiful flower, a particularly strangely shaped animal, a batch of herbs that look like the ones in her mother’s apothecary which she knows are rare and very valuable. Her father always worries when this happens, when she hastens back at dusk just before the gate is closed. But her mother only laughs when he scolds her and says that it will make her a good queen when her time comes – fearless and wise, like Queen Abby of Azgeda herself.

Today, however, she will not make it back in time. She knows the moment she follows one of her favourite paths and stumbles across what can only be described as a crater. Within a radius of about ten feet, trees are torn to shreds and bent out of shape, there are smouldering fires in the undergrowth and an acrid stench in the air. And most importantly, there’s a weird, shiny _thing_ in the middle of _her_ forest unlike anything she’s ever seen. She has seen metal before and glass, but never put together like this to look like a blunt, overturned boat.

The glass on the front and top of it is cracked and scorched, but she can still spot something that makes her breath hitch in surprise: There's someone in there, a boy a little older than herself. And when she slowly, carefully takes a few steps toward the strange object, the boy starts to stir, dark eyelashes fluttering on freckled cheeks.

The next thing she knows, wide brown eyes are staring at her, both of them locked into silence by their crossed gazes.

Then she leans forward to see him better and he springs into action, scrambling to push off the cracked glass and struggling with some kind of binding that keeps him in place in his metal chair. She watches him for a few moments, noting that there’s blood trickling down from a cut on his temple, his hands are shaking and his skin is much paler than it should be, judging by the colour of his eyes and hair.

“ _Always take note of your enemy’s weaknesses before you attack,”_ her mother has told her during their sparring practices, and that’s exactly what Clarke is doing now. It doesn’t occur to her to run away before he can actually climb out of his land-boat and attack her.

Not that he could: As soon as the boy has pulled himself out of his chair and over the edge of the metal vessel, he smashes to the ground with a dull thud, his legs too weak to keep him on his feet. One of them is bleeding from a gash on the upper thigh, and the moment she spots the injury, Clarke decides to help him.

Unfortunately, that plan soon hits its first snag: He doesn’t understand her. She asks where else he’s hurt, where he’s from, what his name is, how he got here, what the weird metal object is for… and all he does is look at her blankly.

She was supposed to start learning English soon, the old common language that the people of earth used to speak before the cataclysm and which their warriors and ambassadors still use to communicate with other clans. But she’s only had a handful of lessons, and remembered very little. This summer has been particularly hot, and Clarke was much more interested in going swimming with Wells than in boring lessons. Scraping together the few sentences she remembers, she asks:

“Warrior? What your clan is?”

He’s still staring at her dumbly, but there’s a spark of recognition in his eyes when he shakes his head.

“I’m not a warrior. I was supposed to train as a guard cadet though, when I’m older.” This time, it’s her turn to be confused – apart from the word “guard”, she did not understand a single word he said, and it does not help when he continues talking even more rapidly, firing questions at her that she doesn’t understand.

Eventually, desperate and overwhelmed and completely clueless as to how she can help him, she raises a hand to his lips, effectively silencing him.

“Stop.” She racks her brain. Are there any words that could be useful right now? “Food?” she settles on eventually, ever the nurturer. No matter where he came from, it must have been a long journey. All of the neighbouring clans understand at least a little of bit of Azgedasleng, and he’s not dressed like anyone she’s ever met.  

He nods enthusiastically, shaking off her hand, and she nods back, points first at herself and then at him.

“I bring food.”

He takes her hand in his then, and the smile he gives her has no trouble crossing the language barrier.

“Thank you.”

Clarke knows what that means but not what to reply, so she just nods again, feeling a little stupid by now until her healer’s instinct takes over once more. She helps him limp into a nearby cave, one of her favourite secret places, and sees to his injuries, cleaning them with water from her canteen and wrapping them with strips of cloth she’s cut off her tunic. When she’s done, she shrugs out of her fur jacket and drapes it over him as a blanket. The weather is still mild in early autumn, but the nights are getting cool and he’ll need it. Setting down her canteen beside him, she gets to her feet, smiling reassuringly when she sees his nervous expression. Wherever he came from, he’s all alone. He must be terrified.

“I come back. You sleep.”

She smiles once more before leaving, trying to reassure him that she won’t let anything happen to him.

She worries about him all the way back to the village, hates having to leave him alone. But if she doesn’t return soon, her parents will send warriors out to look for her, and she definitely does not want them to find him – Azgeda warriors are famous for their ruthlessness and bloodlust. Neither can she bring him back to the village herself, even though she knows her mother would be better equipped to help him. Clarke may be only eight years old, but instinct tells her that this boy will not be safe among her people.

She manages to sneak back to his hide-out three times before she’s caught, and even to find out his name and where he came from, though both answers seem equally unlikely: Bellamy is a strange name and "space" a strange home. But she believes him, and returns until her parents catch her sneaking out one evening. When she refuses to tell her parents why she suddenly wants to go out so often, or where she’s going, she's locked in her room, and her stubborn silence doesn’t even last the night – after a night of worried pacing, she breaks down and tells her father everything.

He sets out with her that very morning, and the look on his face when he finds the injured boy hidden away tells her he’s thinking the exact same thing she was when she first saw him: Their people will kill him. But he can’t stay here forever, or nature in its deadly force will finish him off before any of the Azgeda can.  

Clarke has stood between her father and the boy from the moment they entered the cave, defiantly staring up at her father, and when he makes a move towards the boy, she holds out her hands.

“I won’t let you kill him.”

“No, of course you won’t. But he can’t stay here.” Expression impossibly soft, her father brushes her cheek tenderly. “I know you want to help him, Clarke. But he needs proper medical attention, food, warm clothes… He won’t make it through the winter on his own.”

“He’s not on his own.” Clarke takes the boys hand, just to emphasize her point, and her father smiles before he kneels down and picks up the boy.

He carries him all the way back and straight to Abby’s clinic, and by the time rumour has spread around the village and the first of their people come by and demand they kill the intruder, the Griffin family has unanimously decided to protect the stranger who came out of nowhere.

Abby calls a village meeting and politely listens to the villagers’ complaints about additional mouths to feed and enemy spies and blood and loyalty. But the Queen still has the last word on the issue, and her decision is clear.

“He is a child. We do not kill children.“

Ten years later, Clarke wonders if her mother regrets the decision: Standing before Abby’s throne, Clarke has just proudly defied her queen’s order to lead a group of warriors against the people who fell from the sky – Bellamy’s people. Being chosen for the mission is a great honour, but Clarke casts it aside without so much as a second thought, Bellamy’s hand clutched tightly in hers once more.

 

**Year 2148**

Octavia is sick and Bellamy’s getting reckless in his desperation, which is why he’s currently sitting in the med bay, coughing his lungs out and generally trying to faithfully recreate every one of the symptoms he’s seen her display.

The doctor on call is young and clearly inexperienced, but even she isn’t fooled. She has now taken three blood samples and is staring back and forth between him and the little blood analysis gadget in her hand.

“This is so weird. The reading I’m getting from your blood samples does not match up with the symptoms you’re displaying _at all_. It makes no sense.”

He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant but also desperately sick.

“Maybe it’s malfunctioning.”

She bites her bottom lip as she ponders the mystery, and since he’s not _actually_ sick, the gesture makes a certain kind of awareness shoot right through him. She’s definitely pretty, with the kind of healthy glow that just _screams_ Alpha station – clearly, she never had to go without rations or medicine. Her nametag reads “C. Griffin”, and her last name rings a bell. If he remembers correctly, there’s someone named Griffin on the council. He groans, smugly noticing the renewed flicker of worry on her face. This is just his luck: Of all the doctors he picked to lie to, it had to be one with council ties. If she catches on to what he’s doing, he’ll be floated for sure, and Octavia… he doesn’t dare to think about it. 

“Maybe I should come back later, when someone more experienced is on call.”

He hopes the rude remark will get him out of his current predicament, but it seems to have the opposite effect: Instead of crawling off to lick her wounds, she seems even more determined to help him now.

“Maybe the blasted thing _is_ malfunctioning. Tell me your symptoms once more.”

He does, throwing in a few more moans and coughs and shivers for good measure, and eventually, she relents.

“Alright, I’ll ignore the bloodworks for now and just give you a shot of antibiotics.”

His relief is short-lived. What good will it do his sister if she gives him a shot? He needs medicine he can take home for Octavia.

“No!” He blurts it out before he can think much, and then scrambles to come up with an explanation. “I’m afraid of needles. Is… isn’t there some other means of administering the medicine?”

She definitely looks a little suspicious now, but to his relief, she turns towards one of the cabinets and rifles around until she pulls out a glass container filled with pills.

“I can give you pills for oral ingestion, if you insist on not getting the shot. But you’d better not be lying to me to so you can sell the pills on the black market. If Kane gets his hands on them and manages to trace them back to me, we’ll both be floated.”

“I won’t sell them, I promise. I really am afraid of needles, always have been.” 

She still doesn’t look entirely convinced, so he leans a little closer, smiling conspiratorially. “But let’s keep that our little secret, shall we? If any of my friends find out, they’ll never let me live it down.” 

He turns the charm up another notch, smiles so brightly she can’t help but be dazzled, and feels a little bit guilty, but only a little. After all, his sister’s life is on the line. And he doesn’t believe for even a second that they’d actually float the daughter of a council member. She’s just naïve enough to still believe that the Ark’s rules apply to all of them equally.

Five minutes later, she has handed him a small bag of pills and explained when and how to take them, and he tries not to let his relief show too much. Hopefully, the pills will be enough to save Octavia. They have to.

When he’s almost by the door, she calls out after him:

“I expect to see you back here in a week, so you better take that medicine.”

He lifts his hand to his head in the kind of mock-salute he’s seen in old-timey seafaring movies, relief making him feel suddenly lighthearted and silly and more than a little thankful.

“Aye aye, Captain.”

The exaggerated display makes her giggle, and suddenly, he’s looking forward just a little bit to returning next week for his check-up.

 

**Year 2152**

When she first sees the land King Roan has given them to settle on, Clarke thinks that this has to be a trap - it’s simply too good to be true.

They’ve passed dense forests on the way here, full of wildlife to hunt, sprawling plains that, in time, they might plant crops on, and now they’ve reached their destination: the remains of a small village, houses half-crumbled but for the most part salvageable, and right behind them the ocean, dropping down the cliff to a sandy beach and stretching out before her eyes, endless and glittering in the late summer sun.

Trying not to let the sight lure her into lowering her guard, Clarke turns to one of the Azgeda warriors who led them here and tries to keep her voice neutral when she says:

“This land is wonderful. I feel like King Roan is being too generous in allowing us to settle.”

The young ambassador just shrugs.

“There’s enough land for everyone, and this is no-man’s-land. The Azgeda don’t like living so close to the sea, and the boat people practically live in the sea but they think it’s too cold this far north.” 

The Azgeda warrior gives her shoulder a quick squeeze, then gets back on her horse. “Make something out of it. When I come back in the spring, I expect to trade.”

She doesn’t smile or wink to suggest she’s joking, and Clarke knows she isn’t: Roan did not give them this land just out of the goodness of his heart. He does expect them to build a useful, productive community here – and of course, to be the first to profit from it when they have.

The thought of being once again dependent on a grounder ally doesn’t sit easy with Clarke, not after Lexa, after all the backstabbing and open revolt of Polis, but the alternative – staying at Arkadia – is even worse. Unimaginable, really, she thinks with a look at Bellamy, who’s been slinking about the fallen Ark with a look that didn’t remind her of a haunted man so much as a ghost.

Many of her other friends weren’t faring much better, and even with Kane back in control and relations with most of the grounder clans restored, Clarke had known as soon as the dust had settled that Arkadia would not be a place for them to make a home of, not now or ever.

They needed a new one, and Roan had provided. The houses here must have belonged to very rich people: The stone mansions are still mostly intact, and each of them could comfortably house twenty people at least, although Clarke knows that no more than a single family used to live in them, a concept that she finds hard to imagine after growing up on the cramped Ark. Looking around, she can practically see the hustle and bustle as they rebuild the houses, can imagine little fishing boats on the beach and hunters coming in from the woods.

And most importantly, for a second she can imagine Bellamy, smiling on the beach, the constant frown and dark circles erased from his face as if the bracing air could be enough to chase away his demons. He deserves that, and so much more.

After sending off the Azgeda warriors and making sure everyone is accounted for, happily exploring the surrounding buildings, Clarke allows herself to turn her full attention on the man who’s finally her partner again. He’s standing a little apart from everyone else, looking out over the sea, his chest rising and falling as he breathes in deep lungfuls of salty ocean air, and Clarke suddenly feels jealous of the wind for being allowed to caress his hair, of the sunshine for dancing across his freckles. He seems calm, not quite happy but on his way there, and Clarke desperately needs this impression to be correct.

Stepping up next to him, Clarke ponders the best way to make sure it is - “ _Do you like it?” “Will we heal here?”_ \- but before she can ask, he says:

“So this is it? Our new beginning?” He sounds like he really wants her answer to be yes.

“Yes,” Clarke says and then gives in to the temptation of leaning into him the tiniest bit, just to siphon some of his warmth against the biting wind, “this is it.”

 


End file.
